Rooms I Have Known
By John Herlihy

I can count on the fingers of many hands,
And if need be on my thumbs and toes,
The wide variety of rooms I have known,
Rooms that for a while I called my own.
Everyone needs their own personal space,
Where they can sit quietly in perpetual grace.
No need to step out of yourself into the world of another;
No need to pretend everyone is your long lost brother.

The first room I remember was my childhood bedroom,
The place I shared with my brother and came into full bloom.
The room had wallpaper painted with birds on the wing in the sky;
My older brother kept insisting he wanted to be a pilot and fly.
We would talk and share our secrets deep into the night,
Sometimes I would cling to him scared by shadows into fright.
The room has a special place in the mansion of my heart;
In this room my brother and I whispered promises, never to part.

I attended a high school seminary and given a room to share,
With another seminarian with whom I exchanged due care.
We became close friends sharing our secrets and fears of failing;
We pledged allegiance brother to brother until death came calling,
The room echoes the chimes that witnessed the passing of the hour.
Matins, lauds, vespers and the night office with special power,
The room filled with books that I read with reverence and awe,
That became treasures of my mind otherwise filled with straw.

After college, I left my homeland to explore foreign climes;
I needed to run free and escape the confines of my mind.
I had money enough for a small room in a boarding house;
The room wasn’t big enough to serve the wants of a mouse.
I was a simple person unburdened with extravagant needs;
All I needed was a quiet place with a lamp where I could read.
The room provided me my first home away from home,
From there, I had the city and the countryside in which to roam.

In middle age, I once took sick with a serious illness;
I tossed and turned at night and could find no lasting stillness.
A friend suggested I visit India and have treatments of Ayurveda;
An alternative treatment and cure based on the scriptures of the Veda.
I settled myself into a small clean room with a tiled floor;
There was a bucolic view that opened out beyond the terrace door.
The whole of nature spread out before me at my slippered feet;
The monsoon rains thundered down on tin roofs as a special treat.

I have been known to sleep in forest glades and jungle parks,
Awaiting the visitation of dangerous animals from Noah’s Ark.
I have climbed mountain peaks and followed the pathways of rivers,
To gather into my private stash the signs of nature in bits and slivers.
Give me a camper’s tent and the trees overhead as protective awning,
Where I can sleep with a child’s innocence until the coming of morning.
All of Mother Nature provides a kind of room that I can call my own,
Where I can live and eat and sleep as though resting in my own home.

I now live in an expensive hotel and enjoy a suite of rooms,
Maids come twice a week and sweep the place clean with brooms.
The magic of Wi-fi connects me with the world from the room’s couch;
I can hide my true nature, whether it be as a grouch or a slouch.
Destiny finds me passing my time away from the world on the 25th floor;
The future continues to unfold in unexpected ways amounting to more.
From the vantage point it seems I have the entire world to greet;
The clouds, the skyline, even the sun follows its arc at my feet.

A room of one’s own has something to give;
Especially an opportunity to be able to freely live.
A glorious freedom to be on one’s own and completely alone,
A freedom that allows our inner nature to shine as polished stone.
When I can raise my hands in the air and take off my public face;
When I can withdraw within, free of the human race.
It is a rented freedom; but a freedom none the less;
An illusion borrowed for a time without need of redress.

I lay in my private room in bliss as if drugged with opium,
Lights flashing in the gilded mirrors of the world emporium,
To drink an elixir that draws forth perfume from a Chinese bottle,
Lacquered red and yellow, with my hands on a golden throttle,
Roaming idly through the narrow corridors of misty dreams,
Through a world that I know is no longer what it seems.
The sound of feathers, of beating drums, I sing to myself hi ho hi hum
Without a care in the world, my room keeps me from feeling glum
How could I have ever known that I could be so secure and happy;
I just lay in my room, tucked up content, like an infant in its nappy.